Snow-man
A Story Every Day in 2024 Sept 17th 261/366
I await the first flake. For with it, my love will return. Lumen. My Lumen.
I hold his heart all year round. It sits in a box on my sideboard. The box is nothing special but what it contains is everything to me. Sometimes, I open it and I look at it, quickly, blue, beating and marvel at the fact that it's mine, that he has chosen me over all others.
I remember placing it there before the first bulb's green spike forced its way from the ground. Green is a detestable colour: vomit, sickness, loss of love.
He said to me: "It will be safe there, my love. You will have my heart until the cold returns. Know that I will always be here, with you."
And then, he evaporated into a series of droplets, the light illuminating them like small jewels, until he was gone.
Summers are long. I hate them. Too colourful. Leafy trees and golden light are my nemesis. I feed myself, I clothe myself, I sit. When autumn arrives to redecorate, I feel myself coming to life, the stirrings of desire and the prospect of reunion with my love a glimpse of something on the horizon. Only then do I appreciate warmth as it comes from deep inside me, like a long lost friend. I crave a monochrome world of white layered with white and the sharp cold tweaking my nose and dropping stars on my eyelashes. And his icy touch when I feel it, which threatens to break me into shards.
He appeared to me in the coldest winter: 2010. It was bitter. Hard. People still talk about it negatively. I merely give a wry smile. I don't see it like they do: power cuts, ice rain, long days, snow shovelling, aching shoulders, hardships.
I see it as wild, powerful. It was all these things to me.
It is getting colder now. I shiver with it as my hairs raise, with pleasure and the prospect of more.
Dark, dark sky. Heavy with snow. If I could prick it with a pin and hasten its fall, I would.
I am here, my love, waiting.
And then, the first flake falls.
***
365 words
A strange one from me today, I will fully admit. It was written from a prompt:
Winter was the only season we could be together.
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261/366
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